


The Things He Carried

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Prompt Fic, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For their anniversary, Douglas plans a romantic getaway on a private yacht for him and Martin.  Things don't go according to plan, however, after they see a poster that reminds Douglas of a past trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He Carried

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cabinpress_fic meme over on DW. Please enjoy. :)

They were holding hands. In public. Granted, they were in London, and the rules were different in a big city where only two other people knew them and knew about them were around, but still. In public. Martin felt adrenaline fizz from the butt of his heels to the short tips of his hair. His fingers curled even more tightly around Douglas’s. Douglas’s fingers tightened as well. Then Martin’s. By the time they had reached the stairs to the underground, their fingers and knuckles were white from the strength of their grasps.

They had to let go of each other to get through the barriers, the lines, paying for tokens, and finding the line that would take them to a night-long cruise down the Thames on a private yacht (borrowed from a “friend” of Douglas’s, who was _so grateful_ for five hundred jars of American peanut butter), a candlelit dinner, and a private, plush bedroom—light-years different from the shared hotel room Carolyn had “accidentally” rented for the four of them during the weekend-long conference; the same bloody weekend that Martin and Douglas’s two-year anniversary landed.

Martin’s fingers brushed against the ridge of Douglas’s palm as they stood on the platform. Douglas rubbed his knuckles against the center of Martin’s palm, and Martin weaved his fingers between Douglas’s.

“We have quite the night ahead of us,” Douglas said. He had bowed his head and his lips were warm and close to Martin’s ear.

“We do,” Martin agreed, pleased that it came out as more than a giddy breath.

“And I’m quite exhausted from all of the planning that went into it,” Douglas continued, voice bordering sarcasm and seduction. “Since I’ve made all of the plans so far, I think it’s fair that you get some say over the second half of the evening.” Douglas kissed Martin’s temple-- _in public_ \--and whispered, “Whatever you say, I’ll do, I promise.”

Martin’s mind seemed to stop for a moment, then flurried through the possibilities—the fantasies, the positions, the ferocity—like Arthur at a jukebox. They all kept coming to the same fantasy: Martin, balls-deep in the shuddering body of his lover, teeth running down his sweaty, sweet back, hands holding tightly onto his hips as Martin pulled out, pushed in, worshipped Douglas’s older but still magnificent body. Martin squeezed Douglas’s hand. Martin had brought up the proposition before, and Douglas had shot it down every time (though with greater hesitation and thought each time, Martin reminded himself), explaining that there was a lot of things Douglas was willing to do to get Martin off, about thirty percent of them Martin had already seen, but getting fucked would never, _can never_ be one of them. Martin asked why, Douglas said simply that he couldn’t. He didn’t like it. Martin had accepted that, since Douglas was exceptionally understanding when Martin ever said “no” to something, and besides, he loved feeling Douglas’s hips against him, his cock as deep as Martin could take him, feeling the friction and the slide and the comfort of being filled, full, completed by someone else--which, Martin supposed, was part of the reason why he wanted to fuck Douglas so badly.

Now, though, maybe, Douglas was reconsidering?

The thought alone made Martin’s penis twitch and tingle with the first hints of arousal.

Their train pulled up and Douglas led Martin in.

The car was predictably packed, but two seats were available right next to each other, and the pair claimed them instantly. It was dirty and stuffy and there was graffiti scratched into the bulletproof glass windows and carved into the plastic seat cushions. There was an undeniable stench from a corner far away from them, and in front of them, behind thick, scratched plastic, was a poster that somehow surpassed everything else in its level of disturbance.

In the foreground was a rugby ball, slowly deflating from the nine-inch-long nail jammed into its side. Behind it, the sky was stormy navy blue and indigo and the ball was sitting on a field of vibrant, tall grass, wild against everything else in the picture. Above the ball, in block white letters that were purposely scratched, were the words “Real Men Get Raped” and underneath the ball, in smaller letters but the same font, were the words “And Talking About It Takes Real Strength”.

Martin felt his arousal disappear as he stared at the poster, replaced instead with unease and tenseness in the back of his jaw. He wrapped his arm around Douglas’s, which was when he noticed that Douglas had gone stiff. Martin looked at him.

Douglas was pale—no, not just pale, because he had lost so much more than color in his face. Everything that made Douglas recognizable as the sarcastic, intelligent sky god had disappeared, leaving someone gray and old and tired. There were bags under his eyes that Martin had never noticed. Wrinkles expanded out of the corners of his eyes and the smile creases around his mouth were deep, deeper than Martin had thought they would ever be. Douglas’s eyes were wide and there was something in them that Martin hadn’t seen since he turned his head to look at him after the bird strike in St. Petersburgh: panic. Blind panic.

Martin wrapped his arms more tightly around Douglas’s arm. Douglas blinked, and slowly turned his head to Martin. Martin pressed his forehead against Douglas’s arm and the older man started to gain back some of himself. He leaned down and Martin lifted his head so that their lips met in a soft, chaste kiss that lingered on his lips, unlike the eyes of the apathetic car riders.

They sat in front of that poster for three stops, when theirs finally came up and they were given the permission to leave. Outside the car, Douglas took Martin’s hand and they headed for one of the exits.

**

The yacht was moored near London Bridge. The ship was planning on sailing west, then turn around just before it reached city limits, and then sail east ward for just as long, when it would turn around and return to the mooring place. Martin and Douglas could be on the ship for however long they wanted, as long as they were off the yacht by noon the next day. They could leave whenever they wanted, but Martin felt that they weren’t going to be leaving the ship anytime before sunrise.

Dinner wasn’t going to be served until after sunset, but they were welcome to drinks. Douglas poured Martin a healthy amount of wine and poured himself apple juice. They lounged on a deck and watched the sun set, Martin tucked comfortably into Douglas’s side.

And if Martin noticed that Douglas was so much more quiet than usual, he wrote it off as being genuinely happy or…or something. Maybe he didn’t want to ruin the moment—he had a knack for romanticism, as the private cruise itself proved. Or maybe there was something wrong. He had been quiet since the ride in and Martin remembered that look, that pale-faced loss of himself at…at the sight of the poster.

Martin sipped his wine, its bitter alcohol stronger than any other glass he had tasted before, and curled closer to Douglas. “You’re quieter than normal.”

Douglas’s gaze shifted slowly over to Martin. “You think so?”

“I have seen _three_ perfect opportunities for your classic sarcasm on our way over, and you didn’t even try.” Martin put his glass on the floor and curled himself closer to Douglas’s side. “If you tell me that you’ve _suddenly gone nice_ for our anniversary, I’ll have to ask you to throw yourself over the side of the boat and give me my boyfriend back.”

Douglas chuckled. “Miss Marple strikes again! You have uncovered my dastardly plot to replace the world’s most handsome, talented pilot with a kind-hearted android. I shall, at your bidding, throw myself into the water.” Douglas began to stand up, but Martin pulled him back down and closer to him. They were both chuckling and smiling and Douglas rubbed his nose against Martin’s before the younger leaned in and pressed his lips against Douglas’s. They lay like that for a few moments, taking in each other’s heat and breath as the light dimmed around them. Douglas ran his fingers up and down Martin’s arm. Martin’s fingers curled around Douglas’s shirt. He realized that Douglas hadn’t answered his question. He lifted his head and looked at the slight blush and the characteristic shine of sarcasm and life in his brown eyes. Martin smiled softly and rested his head on Douglas’s shoulder and let his worries fall below the horizon with the sun.

**

The dinner had been delicious: butterflied, pan-fried pheasant with mango-chili salsa and roasted courgettes. There was a cheese and honey plate with sweet red wine (and grape juice) after the entrée. Martin’s mind was buzzing and he was giggling quite loudly as Douglas, dead sober, ran his fingers over Martin’s wrist.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” Douglas asked.

Martin nodded fervently, stopping once the world started to swim. “Yes. This is…probably the best night I’ve had since…since…since the night after I got my CPL.” Martin smiled madly. “And you…” Martin said, pointing at Douglas, “are the _love_ of my life. I think…wait…no…yes, you are more important to me than…than flying because flying doesn’t take me out on dates and make me feel handsome and it doesn’t snuggle with me when it’s cold.” Martin put his pointing finger hand down on top of Douglas’s hand. “I love you, Douglas, and I say that all the time and I feel like I should tell you that so much more. ‘Cause I love you.”

Douglas squeezed Martin’s hand. “Would you love me even if I told you something horrible about myself?”

“Douglas—I know that you were an alcoholic, a smuggler, and you’ve gone through three divorces, and you have a daughter you barely see, mostly because that wife is an awful bitch, and I’m still here, aren’t I?” Martin leaned forward. “There’s nothing you can say that will chase me off or make me love you less.”

Douglas looked at their hands, layered on top of one another, and Martin, in his tipsy state, understood just how serious Douglas was about what he was going to say.

“I want to tell you,” Douglas started, “that this wasn’t a part of the original plan. I was going to bring you here, show you a good time, and then let you have your wicked way with me.” Douglas glanced up at Martin’s face, then fixed his gaze on their hands. Whatever he was going to say, saying it to Martin’s face was going to be too hard. “Then we saw that poster on the train and I started thinking…”

Martin’s stomach began to plummet as his brain began to piece things together, but wasn’t able to understand what it understanding.

“I…I was…” Douglas paused, gave a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. “I was once…forced…to do something…I didn’t… _want_ to do…by an ex of mine.”

“Douglas—“

They fell quiet for a few minutes. During their silence, the waiter brought them their desert, a chocolate cake topped with hunks of Toblerone bars, and walked away with a knowing smile, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the two lovers. Their pieces of cake were left alone and Martin’s eyes, wide and mournful, stared at Douglas’s downturned face. The hand under Martin's was shaking, even though the balmy July air was windless and warm.

“I—I don’t know…what--?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told.” Douglas sighed. “I was still a medical student. I was dating another man—not my first, and I thought I loved him. I thought he was almost as perfect as I was. As the relationship dragged on, however, we started sniping and getting angrier with each other. The normal relationship things, when you realize you’re not right for each other. He thought I wasn’t taking medical school seriously and he was angry that I was getting by so easily. I thought he was being an uptight control freak about everything and I told him often enough that one night he punched me.” Douglas fell silent for a moment and his gaze turned from their hands to the black, lapping waters of the Thames. “We broke up that night. A week later, we met each other at a friend's party and we ended up quite drunk and in a bedroom together. At first to sober up, but he…he wanted…”

He fell silent again. Martin pulled out one of his hands—which prompted Douglas to look at him, stunned—and used his free hand to turn Douglas’s onto their sides, palm-to-palm, and squeeze them, stop them from shaking as badly as they were. Martin looked up at Douglas through long lashes.

“I’m so sorry. I…I wish I could do something for you about…but I…is there? Is there anything I can do? I—I feel honored that you trust me enough to tell me this because…it is such a horrible thing and I…I want to know if…I want to love all of you and I want to…to…” Martin took in a shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to say, Douglas.”

“Martin, that has never stopped you from talking before.” Douglas smirked. “I think that you’re doing a quite excellent job, however, with trying to express something you don’t know how to express.” Douglas finally looked at Martin in the face. “After that night I refused to be with any other man. He had said some awful things and I took it to heart and I went into the longest bout of celibacy of my life.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks. It was two weeks later that I dropped out of medical school and, to celebrate, I went to a pub with my brother and his friends and I met the woman who was to become the first Mrs. Richardson. We had sex that night and it wasn’t particularly notable, mostly because I wasn’t in top form, understandably, but I was comfortably numb with a woman." Douglas's eyes wandered down to their hands, pressed together, before looking back up at Martin and saying in an odd, distanced tone: "When you’re a man and you have sex with a woman, you have control over what’s happening. That was nice after..." Douglas took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. "You know where the story goes from there.”

“You never had sex with another man until me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Martin blushed. “I mean, I’m flattered and happy, obviously, but…but there had to have been other men that you were attracted to before me and I know that I’m not…ideal.”

“Oh, shut up you beautiful creature.” Douglas winked at Martin, who smiled softly and blushed even more vibrantly. “You are right, though. I have been attracted to other men in the past—captain uniforms are _very attractive_ when you know how to use them, after all—but the memory of my last encounter always floated in the back of my mind whenever I thought about being with any of them. As for why I chose you, well my reasons were diverse and multitudinous: you are attractive, and you look submissive.” Douglas noticed the annoyed tick at the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Oh, don’t be insulted, my love, my impression of you has led us here, hasn’t it? What could be better?”

Douglas’s gaze slid to their hands, his nestled between Martin’s. “Not to say that what has happened in the past hasn’t affected what we have.”

Martin’s mind flashed for a moment to the often-played fantasy of having Douglas under him, against him, around him. Martin felt sick.

Douglas seemed to have noticed. “I don’t want you to feel bad about wanting what you want, Martin, because I want it to. It’s difficult, sometimes, because I trust you and I love you, and in my mind I’m okay with it. There have been plenty of times where I’ve wanted to offer it to you, but it’s still...”

Martin nodded when Douglas couldn’t finish his sentence. “I understand. I mean, well, I don’t _completely_ understand but…but I think I understand why you wouldn’t.”

Douglas nodded. “Looking for help has crossed my mind in the past, normally around the times of my divorces, when I felt strongly attracted to other men, the birth of my daughter, and when I had heard he had died in a car crash a few years ago.” Douglas took a deep breath that shook as he exhaled. “I almost came close, when I first started going to therapy for my alcoholism. The therapist said that sometimes traumatic events, or remembering traumatic events, can inspire alcoholism, and I thought about telling her about the…that night, but I couldn’t, in the end.” Douglas blinked.

“I think that’s a great idea, Douglas. I’ll be there to support you, if you want, when you’re ready. I want you to forget about it and I want you to be happy and I want you to…to be…I want you to be comfortable. With everything.”

Douglas leaned in slightly. “Martin, let me say one thing.” Martin looked at him in his eyes, brown and round and deep and lovely and serious. “I,” he said sternly, with the fierceness of a man bargaining for his soul, “will never forget what that man did to me all those years ago. I have tried and I know that I will never forget the fear and the shame and the feeling of violation that one act made me feel and how it dogged me into my adulthood.” He leaned back. “That act is as much a part of me as my child or my hair or my naturally dashing charm. What I can do is be comfortable with my past.” He sighed. “If it’s anything like what happened when I went off the drink, it will be long and hard and I may be snappish and emotional and you may not like to be around me, but your support will be imperative to the process.”

Martin smiled softly. “Douglas, I don’t care how hard it’ll be; I’m in it for the long haul. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support you.” Martin lifted one of Douglas’s hands and kissed his wrist. The silent “I love you” hung between them as Douglas squeezed Martin’s hands.

“Thank you” he said. He slipped his fingers out of Martin’s. “Now—this cake!”

**

They didn’t have sex that night. Instead, they talked until their voices had gone hoarse and kissed until they were exhausted and when they woke up the next morning, Douglas found his head resting on Martin’s shoulder, his legs wrapped around Martin’s, and their fingers intertwined on top of the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, if you are experiencing the effects of a personal trauma--be it rape, abuse, or even just the loss of someone close to you--find help. It may seem like there is nothing you or anyone can do about it now, but that doesn't mean the emotional scars aren't there. Life moves a little slower with the baggage.


End file.
